


Nothing Like Stodgy

by Red



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Haircuts, M/M, Old Married Couple, Post-Canon, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2763713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1978 and it's about time Charles gave in and admitted it: he's going bald. </p><p>Erik's more than pleased to help him get rid of the combover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Like Stodgy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [listerinezero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/listerinezero/gifts).



> For listerinezero's lovely prompt of:
> 
>  
> 
> _I wrote a little bit on Tumblr about how much I love when Erik loves Charles' bald head. I would love to see a bit of Erik loving on bald Charles' shiny head - shaving his head, massaging his head, kissing his head, generally appreciating his head... whatever. Or, alternatively, I would be very happy with Erik cutting Charles' hair. I just love Erik doting on Charles and taking pride in Charles' appearance._
> 
>  
> 
> _My little post about that is[here](http://listerinezero.tumblr.com/post/98918453175/can-i-just-tell-you-something-though-there-are). _
> 
>  
> 
>  _Also for[inspiration](http://listerinezero.tumblr.com/post/98917793885/gud-jab-arick)_.
> 
> I hope my humble offering makes your winter bright! (and seriously, everyone, check out seadeepspace's fanart)

By the time he comes to terms with the fact he’s balding, it’s well into ‘78 and Hank’s been on him for well over a decade to cut his hair. 

Or, more accurately (though, of course, Hank’s certainly not bold enough to put it so) what remains of it. 

Why bother, he’d thought. Long hair was in fashion. It wasn’t as if he needed to _impress_ anyone. And by the time he’d been taking students again, he’d been accustomed to parents finding him somewhat disreputable (better by far than them seeing him as some sexless stodgy old professor) and, vainly, he’d been despairing the ever-increasing piles of hair he’d been finding on his pillows and in the shower. 

It was nearly enough to dissuade him from using a brush altogether. But the sheer production which was The Great Detangling of ‘72 made it so he’d spend every morning since observing the inexorable migration of hair from head to brush to wastebin, only to bring him to now. 

Now, he’s got two days before he’s expected in Washington and what surely must be the world’s most glaringly obvious comb-over. 

For about an hour, he’d attempted to find that elusive pattern of arranging each individual strand into a masterpiece of obscured scalp. 

After that failed, he’d spent another forty-five minutes or so considering the greater implications of using his powers to just make everyone _see_ a full head of hair. 

And, having discarded that, he’s now back in the bathroom with a bottle of whiskey and a pair of scissors and the unavoidable fact that he’s doomed to a life of Sexless Stodgy Professordom. 

Normally, he’d think this a terribly bad decision. He hasn’t the slightest how to cut hair while sober, he’s certainly not going to be very adept at it while drinking, but all he can think right now is _what hair_ and _how hard can it be?_

Shaving your head can’t be all that much harder than shaving your face, which--yes, to be honest he’s been a bit out of practice with _that_ for the last couple years as well, but--isn’t difficult in the least. 

He takes up the scissors. He lifts up a handful of hair at random with his left hand, large enough that it’d be impossible to hide, forcing him to finish the job. 

He breathes in, looks unseeingly into the mirror. He breathes out, and cuts. 

The scissors are a new pair, and they slice neat and silent through his thin hair, and he’s thinking _fuck, it’s just a bloody mass of dead cells, fuck, nothing to be upset over--_ while his vision starts getting blurry as he stares at the hair in his hand. 

And--of course, why would he expect any different?--that is precisely when Erik shows up. 

Over the decades Charles has known him, he’s learned so much is a constant with Erik: his timing is as impeccable as his sense of fashion. 

As usual, Erik’s gone and let himself in the bedroom window, and then presumably honed in on the sense of Charles’s chair to wander into the en suite. And no, Erik never did retrieve his helmet, so perhaps Charles ought to have noticed him a few miles before he’s stomping into the bathroom and confiscating the scissors, but this is a rather emotional time so Charles is just going to forgive himself. 

“What are you doing?” Erik demands. Charles doesn’t bother to turn, taking in Erik’s crossed arms and polyester suit and the scissors hovering unnervingly through the mirror’s reflection. 

Quickly, though, his attention is caught up in his own appearance: watery eyes, the robe that’s been threadbare for years, the ugly lopsided haircut.

“Fuck, Erik,” he groans, letting his clenched left hand relax, letting hair drop to the tile. “What am I doing?” 

“That is what I asked,” Erik says, slowly walking in to stand at Charles’s side. He rests his hand on one shoulder, right under the uneven gap of hair. Through his peripheral sensing of Erik’s powers, Charles feels the scissors come to rest on the counter, right by an empty glass. “Though I will admit the question isn’t a necessary one.” 

Over the last few years, he and Erik have grown into a functional and comfortable on-again-off-again, I’m-forever-releasing-public-statements-decrying-my-lover’s-tactics relationship, and most of their arguments are by now familiar ones. So Charles doesn’t need his powers--or even to let Erik go much further than noticing the empty glass--before he looks up.

“I should say not,” he says, «and just the one». 

A wordless «?» is all he gets back, and he sighs impatiently. 

“ _Glass_ ,” he corrects.

Erik probably only accepts his word because of the telepathic link, but at least he doesn’t say anything else on the topic. Instead, he takes his hand off Charles’s shoulder, and brushes his fingers against the small patch of close-sheared hair. 

“Well,” Erik says. His expression is absurdly fond as he meets Charles’s gaze. It’d almost make Charles fall for him all over again, if it weren’t for the aggravating and obvious fact that Erik has just as much hair now as he did the day Charles hauled him out of the Atlantic. “So you’re hoping to clean up for the camera.” 

Charles considers pointing out that what he’d actually been hoping for is that this timeline would involve a future with more hair, thank you. But the way Erik says “camera” like going on television is some sort of mortal sin when _he’s_ the one always commandeering them in his little moments of grandeur--

“I was on NBC three months ago,” he points out, as if Erik hadn’t seen. “I’m just hoping to look a touch less--” 

He trails off, clearing his throat. A touch less what? _Absurd_ , _pathetic_ , he’s thinking. And maybe some of that bleeds over to Erik’s mind, maybe it doesn’t. 

Either way, Erik lifts up the scissors again in a tiny exertion of his power, and leans down to kiss Charles lightly on the crown of his head. 

“Allow me, then?” Erik asks. 

It’s not quite a demand. And while it’s clear Erik takes a certain level of leniency from Charles for granted (see: forcing the windows open at all hours of the night, building a stupid asteroid base, abducting Charles to asteroid bases at all hours of the night), he’s not about to presume when it comes to something like this. 

The scissors hover at his side, handles facing Charles. It’s actually rather charming, and anyway...

He looks back at his reflection, and sighs again. 

And anyway, he’s started already. And shaving one’s own head may _not_ be as simple as he’d anticipated, and Erik does have a fair knack with metallic items. Provided they aren't firearms. 

He meets Erik's gaze, and nods. 

Erik brings his hand up, threads it in Charles’s hair, right up against his scalp. It’s a shivery, pleasant sensation as Erik runs his fingers slowly through the remaining hair--startlingly reminiscent of how it is when he’s talked Erik into fucking his mouth, the way Erik holds his head, and Christ what if Erik never wants that again, now that he’s an old man?--and while he’s still busy freaking out, there’s a soft _snick_ of scissors. 

The amount of hair that Erik’s just cut off, it’s a lot more substantial. Instinctively, he jerks away when Erik draws his hand gently upward. Sure, it’s far past time for objections, but he’s almost got more hair on one sleeve than he’s got on his whole sodding head already, and--

“You don’t have to rush it,” he gripes. 

Erik’s already taken a step back, and he raises his hands theatrically.

“I can stop now, if you like,” he says, sounding far too smug. Charles glances in the mirror, and swiftly looks away: it now appears he’s got an extremely localized buzzcut. 

“No,” he says. “No, I suppose you’d best hurry it along, after all,” and he closes his eyes as Erik approaches him again. 

From there, it seems to be quick enough work with the scissors. He’s careful to keep to his mind to himself as much as he can, avoiding whatever impressions Erik might have of his enormous bald spot, of how ridiculous he must look as his hair is cut away; he makes certain, also, his eyes remain resolutely shut. 

No need to prolong the misery, he thinks. The scissors snip, again and again; the hum of Erik’s powers impossible to block. The back of his neck begins to feel distressingly nude and vulnerable, little scatterings of hair tickling as Erik cuts. 

Eventually, he feels Erik sweep one hand over his shoulders, the nape of his neck. Brushing the hair away, he realizes, and he swallows nervously. 

“Hush,” Erik whispers. The bathroom’s spacious, agonizingly practical--Hank had been in such a rush to remodel for him, after the accident, and with no aesthetic sense--but for once, it feels intimate and warm. “I’m not finished, just yet. If you’d like…” 

Erik trails off, sending the impression of what he means: Charles remaining still with his eyes closed through the last of it, while Erik lathers his scalp with shaving cream, while he runs a razor over the bristled remainder of Charles’s hair. 

“Go on,” he says, brusquely. He’s thankful for Erik’s silence as he works the lather up, as he massages Charles’s scalp. 

Peripherally, he can feel Erik lift the razor with his powers. He licks nervously at his lower lip, hyper-focused on Erik’s sensing of the metal and trying not to imagine what a fool he must look.

The first pass of the razor is a thrill. He trusts Erik with this, of course--he now trusts Erik with most matters, aside from fashion or interior decoration--but it’s still so intimate and terrifying, the gradual drag of a blade over his scalp, stripping him of hair. 

“Charles. Breathe,” Erik advises, rubbing his thumb on a little patch of freshly-shaved skin. Charles shudders, and takes a shaky breath in. 

«I’m fine», he sends, not quite trusting his voice. «Carry on, if you would?»

Erik does. He’s much more methodical with this, he’s taking his time. Running the blade across Charles’s skin, rinsing the razor, honing it again and again with his powers so the blade is eternally perfect and sharp--

The shaving probably takes about a half-hour, all told. But the dark of keeping his eyes shut, the narrowed focus of his powers, the press of his anxieties, and the odd twist of arousal that’s building in him, as Erik inadvertently brushes his neck or his ears--it all serves to make the experience _infinitely_ longer. By the time Erik’s wringing out a wet towel, rubbing it lingeringly down over his scalp and the nape of his neck, Charles is flustered. 

“Erik,” he says. His voice comes out raw, gravel-low, and he can’t block out the answering spike of arousal in Erik’s mind. 

«Yes. You should look, now,» Erik sends him. He’s pressing his own impression of Charles forward, imperious like he expects Charles to just accept it.

Charles is far too intelligent for that, though. He’s not about to have his first image of himself as an old man be made _yet worse_ by Erik’s disinterest. Shielding against Erik’s projection, he braces himself. 

He grips at the arms of his chair, and opens his eyes. 

And it’s…

He blinks. 

It’s a shock. 

Certainly. Of course it is. Where he’d had long hair, he’s now none at all. 

But it’s not _bad_. His scalp is pale and he’s sure he’s going to be investing in just that much more sunscreen, but it’s not misshapen, as he’d been sure it would be when he started this venture. 

Somehow, it’s not stodgy in the least. 

He glances up at Erik in the mirror’s reflection, standing behind him. 

Or maybe, he thinks, that’s just Erik’s thinking. It’s difficult to block Erik’s image of him, now that he’s seeing Erik’s expression--hungry and aroused and adoring. 

Erik leans down, kissing his head once more. The sensation is wildly different from before, astoundingly sexual. 

“Come to bed,” Erik begs, hot and breathy against his ear. All across his neck and scalp, the skin’s over-sensitive, the nerves more alive than ever. He shudders, and tilts his head up. 

Erik’s hands brush over his head again, large and warm and callouses rough against bald flesh, and Erik holds him firmly as they kiss. Second-hand, he can feel the depth of it: how much Erik wants him, how intensely Erik loves the rasp of a beard against his skin, how truly he adores the contrast of the sleek smoothness of Charles’s scalp. 

Despite the fact he’s just now _officially_ gone bald, Charles is breathless, panting against Erik’s mouth. 

There is absolutely nothing at all about any of this _anyone_ could mistake for stodgy or sexless. 

Erik is demanding and harsh and as surprisingly vocal as he was the first time they kissed, as he was the second or third of fiftieth. He’s not put off, he’s not just making do--he’s wild for it, as passionate and as enthralled as he’s ever been for Charles. 

“Please,” he rasps, his voice rough when they break for air. “Charles.” «I need--», he’s sending, the thought half-formed and followed by a riot of desperate imagery, Erik on his knees straddling Charles’s chest or on his back with Charles over him or just pressed against Charles’s side, both of them sweating and naked as Erik mouths over Charles’s skin and works his own cock, rough and harsh and Charles groans. 

“Yes. Oh, yes--” and he heads hurriedly out to the bedroom, wheeling carelessly over those last few handfuls of his hair, littering the floor.


End file.
